


Let the Day Decide

by scully1138



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1773985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scully1138/pseuds/scully1138
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The menial job, the nondescript lodgings and his unexceptional new persona made him feel like a stranger to himself, even after all these months. Who <i>was</i> he without his computers and his coding? Who was he now without John?"  </p>
<p>A chance encounter reunites John and Harold after the Samaritan debacle, but will they be able to stay together?</p>
<p>There have been so many wonderful fics written about the aftermath of the season three finale that I just couldn't resist adding my own John and Harold love story...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the Day Decide

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks to Wanderer for the gift of this beautiful, haunting and unexpected cover art. My gratitude truly knows no bounds.
> 
> .
> 
> Many thanks also to Wuchel for the unfailing support and fellowship - and the endless supply of amazing German chocolate. _Vielen Dank!_ And to Markath as well - thank you for being such a kind and encouraging friend. I’m so glad that we see John and Harold in much the same way.

.

An icy drizzle fell from the gloomy November sky soaking his thin wool coat and chilling him to the bone, but Harold continued with his pilgrimage anyway hoping that the rain would somehow cut through the sadness that seemed to permeate his entire existence.

Walking was the only thing that soothed his troubled mind, and letting himself be swept along with the bustling crowds on the busy Manhattan sidewalks helped ground him in this new world for which he had no context and no way to get his bearings. The menial job, the nondescript lodgings and his unexceptional new persona made him feel like a stranger to himself, even after all these months. The unfamiliar, inferior clothing still seemed like a costume, and as the throngs of average, ordinary people with purposeful lives hurried past he felt very much like an actor who had woken up in the middle of a play in which he was the only one who had been given no lines. Who _was_ he without his computers and his coding, his plans and his contingencies, without the work he had dedicated his life to?

Who was he now without John?

The drizzle turned into a steady rain, and he sheltered for a moment beneath the striped awning of a sidewalk café. The familiar ache that always accompanied thoughts of his lost companion hadn’t lessoned over time but he had grown accustomed to it. He welcomed it even; he was relieved when it was always there. The pain of his loss was the most real part of his current existence, a visceral and vital reminder that - although he would never see John again - he had also known rare, genuine love and had been deeply loved in return. And while he accepted that the happiest days of his life were now all memories, it would be unbearable if they were to become _distant_ memories, if all those precious moments with John - so unexpected and sweet - were to fade away like the jackets of so many books left neglected in the sun.

John - loyal, protective, passionate and tender in the most surprising ways. There were so many sides to the man that only Harold had been allowed to see, as a partnership had grown into a friendship and then into something much more profound.

The Library, which had born witness to so many of the moments which bound them together - the triumphs and the disappointments, the teasing and the take-outs, Bear and Leon and a curious baby named Leila - was in ruins. All the documents and physical evidence of their time together had either been erased or destroyed.

He didn’t even have a photograph.

At first Harold’s walks had been aimless - a sort of ambulatory solace for his grief and shock - across the numbered streets, up and down the familiar avenues. Until one day his wanderings brought him downtown, past the Manhattan Criminal Courthouse where Sam Gates had presided over the most important trial of his career with his son’s very life at stake. Unbidden to Harold’s mind came an image of John - as vivid and real as the day they were parted - sitting on the steps comforting the judge and laying out the plan that would ultimately save the lives of both the man and his young son.

Harold realized then that the city itself held its own true record of both their accomplishments and of their time together and his walks had acquired a purpose - a daily, varying tour of places that reminded him of John. He simple followed wherever his heart and his feet led him.

Manhattan General, where Megan Tillman still worked too many hours; a cozy trattoria that had become a favorite haunt after their relationship had turned intimate; the apartment complex still managed by Ernie Trask where he had brought John to recover after Snow’s bullet had nearly taken his life - and where he had first realized that the former agent was already more than an employee to him.

Pausing by the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where they had seen the most exquisite Caravaggio exhibit; hurrying past _The New York Journal_ where Maxine Angelis still zealously pursued the city’s best-kept secrets; lingering too long outside a diner with the perfect Eggs Benedict…

Sometimes Bear accompanied him on these journeys but most often not - the magnificent animal was a magnet for attention and Harold knew that he was already courting disaster by revisiting these old locales. He knew it - he just hadn’t been able to stop, hadn’t been able to bring himself to sever these last ties to a life and to a man he had loved. So he walked on though the compulsion was fast becoming an obsession, and the unforgiving pavement and jostling crowds punished his damaged body until it ached like his wounded heart.

Their regular bench in Central Park where John would throw a tennis ball for the delighted Malinois over and over again; the Wall Street investment firm where Adam Saunders was now CEO; an aging movie house in the village that showed only sub-titled films.

It had been raining that day, too.

The storm increased as evening fell; pedestrians were scurrying for shelter, and all of Manhattan’s taxis seemed to have vanished into the downpour. But Harold wasn’t ready to end his reverie yet anyway, and he carried on with his walk until he caught sight of his sodden, forlorn visage in a storefront window - soaking wet and without even the apparent sense to get in out of the rain. He stared at the unhappy reflection for several long, silent minutes before he was finally forced to admit that - while he would never forget - he would also have to find some way to move forward if he hoped to survive.

And so he walked numbly on with John in his heart, while his mind began searching the rubble of his scorched past for any high ground on which he might rebuild his shattered life.

_“What separates human beings from even the most highly-evolved animals is the cognitive motivation to perform various actions…”_

He smiled for the first time in ages at the memory. _Humanistic Psychology_ had sounded like an easy credit when he and Nathan had taken the class on a whim at MIT. Yet Abraham Maslow’s “Hierarchy of Human Needs” - with its progression from rudimentary drives to transcendent states - had resonated deeply with him. It seemed to suggest a certain order to the messy social interactions that had been a mystery to him even then, and in retrospect the intuitive theory had probably influenced the assumptions he had programmed into the Machine.

_“Satisfying the physiological demands of the human body is the first and most primal requirement in the hierarchy of human needs.”_

Food, shelter, warmth, sleep. To continue breathing. So far he had managed to satisfy these basic necessities of existence - though in his most despairing moments he questioned why he bothered, why his continued survival even mattered.

_Keep yourself alive, Harold. I’ll be coming for you._

Not this time, John.

The danger was still imminent, the threats against them too powerful and pervasive - as evidenced by how quickly Samaritan had found them in the Library. He could still feel the cold clutch of disbelief as his worst fears were manifest around him, but it had been impossible to comprehend in the moment - all they could do was react.

There had been no chance for words left unsaid, not even goodbye, just one last lingering kiss - and so many regrets that they of all people had wasted so much precious time.

Then John was gone, and all that remained was a void that could never be filled.

Eat, sleep, breathe.

In the furthest reaches of his considerable imagination Harold had never contemplated his life being reduced to the sum of its primary metabolic functions. Yet that was all of life that seemed available to him now - even Maslow’s second level seemed wildly out of reach.

_“Once the physiological needs of the body have been satisfied, establishing safety and security takes precedence as an individual seeks to feel physically safe and free from threat.”_

He had never felt safer or more protected in his life than when he was with John - because that’s exactly how the ex-op had wanted him to feel. And while they never spoke of it directly they both knew that John’s definition of keeping Harold safe - _not likely to be harmed, not likely to be taken away_ \- was for the former agent’s benefit as well.

His final glimpse of John’s stunned, bereft face as they had rushed away - from each other and towards an undecipherable future - was seared into his mind’s eye, and he worried constantly that the other man’s darker impulses had taken over after they were separated. It consumed him sometimes that he would never know his partner’s fate, but he had no idea where John was and no means of finding out. Even if he did he would never risk it, never risk destroying John’s cover and ruining his one chance for any sort of future. Harold could only hope that the man’s survival instincts and his formidable skills had pulled him through, and that perhaps he had even found a modicum of solace - although Samaritan had placed real security forever out of reach for both of them.

And yet…

And yet to have John once again lounging easily nearby while he perfected his latest code, or teasing him mercilessly about his taste in opera, or curled contentedly around him while they slept would still make him feel irrationally and unreasonably safe, even in these most harrowing of times.

Harold pushed the impossible thought from his mind.

He had been so carried away by his ruminations that he’d lost track of his wanderings, and it took him a moment to recognize the façade of the _Fenwick New York_ , the quiet Murray Hill hotel where they had hidden Theresa Whitaker during one of their earliest cases together.

They had been virtual strangers to one another then - before trust was a possibility and long before love was ever dreamt of. But in a very real way this was where it had all begun for them - the first time they had gone into the field together, the first time that his new partner had saved his life.

He still remembered the look of relief on John’s face even then, and the sense that _something_ had transpired between them.

_“The third level of human need is interpersonal and involves feelings of love and belonging, including sexual intimacy.”_

They had fallen in love slowly, and even though they never actually said the words their connection had become part of the natural pattern of their days, with John hanging around the Library even when there was no work, and Harold inviting him out to dinner even when neither of them was especially hungry.

And as they gradually crossed the indefinable line between being comfortable together and being uncomfortable apart, Harold began searching for some sign that he was misreading the situation - that he was wrong about where they seemed to be heading.

But John was always there, always seemingly pleased to be in his company, and Harold began catching him in the same curious, sidelong glances that he knew he was guilty of himself.

The moment had come during a pleasant afternoon walk in the park with Bear. The day was breezy and warm and they had strolled side by side with their hands shyly brushing together, sometimes talking and sometimes simply enjoying each other’s company in easy silence. They had walked for a long time, as if neither one wanted to break the spell, and they’d been just about to return to the Library when John stopped to help two little boys with their enormous kite.

It was a traditional diamond kite, light blue and yellow, and there had been something profoundly moving about the sight of John running with it, so unburdened and free, while the boys chased behind and cheered, squealing as Bear nipped at the kite’s brightly colored streamers.

As the kite took flight above, John had looked over at him and smiled and the sight had taken Harold’s breath away - John was so happy at that moment, so happy with _him_.

And something must have shown in Harold’s face too because John walked up determinedly and kissed him then, kissed him for the first time, gently but indelibly because it had been the only thing missing from making it a perfect day.

They had become lovers that night, a moment all the more powerful because it had been so unintended yet somehow inevitable, and so keenly anticipated by them both. John touched him with a reverence that he still found unfathomable, and it had unbridled a passion within him that Harold had never suspected - it shocked him really. He held nothing back with John, revealing more and more of himself until he felt that John was the only person who had ever truly known him or ever would again.

It was the greatest gift he could give to someone who loved him.

Harold had no idea how long he had been standing transfixed in front of the old hotel, but he was jolted back to his senses by a roaring blast of thunder and a tumultuous wind that whipped and snapped the branches of the elegant linden trees that edged the now deserted street. The sky opened up and the rain came down in torrents but still he stood there, frozen by his memories and the icy deluge until he was startled by the jarring metallic clatter of trash cans tumbling over.

Harold thought at first that the wind had gotten hold of them until he saw a tall hooded figure emerge from the alley and begin lunging towards him. His skin prickled with fear and he had only a few seconds to appreciate the grand irony that having survived so many sophisticated and deadly threats, his life was now about to be ended by a random mugging.

He braced for the pain to come.

He thought he was falling but strong arms were wrapping around him, cradling him, and the rain hit his face like pellets as his head was tipped back and desperate lips were crushed against his own. Harold’s heart was pounding wildly but his body responded before his mind could react and he slipped his arms around the other man’s neck, returning the kiss and stroking the back of his head.

Nothing could be more real than the feeling of John’s arms around him once again, but the moment seemed utterly delusional as well, and Harold needed to see his lost lover’s face with his own eyes. He pulled back the hood and gently caressed John’s cheek even though he was afraid the other man might vanish at his touch. “John, John…”

All the pain and loneliness of the previous months welled up in him and he felt like he was coming unhinged but he didn’t care. He knotted his fingers into John’s hair, drew him into another frenzied kiss and let everything else fall away.

A fresh downpour finally broke them apart and drove them inside, and John propelled him around through the hotel’s side door and into the service elevator, his grip so tight around Harold’s arm it was almost painful. Harold’s mind was reeling but they reached their destination and he tried to process the surroundings.

“You’re staying _here_?”

“It’s the hotel we used for the Whitaker case.”

It was the toneless voice of someone who had lost everything, and for whom the most mundane details inflicted the sharpest pain. He looked rough and uncared for, a far cry from the man who had thrived when they were together.

Still in a daze, Harold could only stare at him, but John merely shrugged.

“I just ended up here,” he said, unintentionally answering for both of them.

Dozens of conflicting thoughts and feelings were competing for Harold’s attention, but the first one that he could give voice to was how appallingly vulnerable John had left himself to detection.

“You’re not following the plan, John. I thought we agreed - “

_“Agreed?”_

John had walked over to the window and was pulling the shades, but now he rounded on Harold, more hurt than accusation in his eyes and his voice rising in frustration.

“How could we have _agreed_ on anything when there was no discussion, no debate. I was never given a say in this so-called plan. Everything just…happened.

“I would never have agreed to _this_.” He gestured angrily at the space between them.

Harold was speechless. There had been no choice, no other option - not if they were to go on living. Together they were a conspicuous target, a flagrant red flag to Samaritan’s omniscient system and he urgently wanted to say this to John, to tell him that he had longed for him and worried about him every day that they had been apart.

But while all of these thoughts were ready to come pouring out of him somehow he just couldn’t seem to pull the words together as shock and a day spent in the freezing, soaking rain finally took its toll.

He began to shake uncontrollably, aware for the first time of how utterly bone cold he was. Exhaustion was threatening to take him and he fought to keep his eyes open, but he felt his body begin to sway…

“Oh Jesus Harold, you’re freezing!”

John was supporting him against his own body and Harold felt the other man’s hand on his throat as he checked for a pulse, heard him curse as he took Harold’s numb hands in his own. He felt his heavy, sodden clothing being stripped away and opened his eyes to see worry clouding his partner’s strong features.

John eased him into the suite’s large shower and followed him in, his own clothes quickly disposed of as well. John held him tightly against his chest, and steam rose against the shower’s opaque glass walls as the hot water cascaded over them. Harold felt his entire body tingle as the warmth and John’s presence began to revive him; he let John take his whole weight and relaxed into his embrace. John had one arm wrapped around Harold’s shoulders and his other hand was making small circles over Harold’s back, but whether John was trying to warm him or reassure himself of his lost love’s physical presence Harold couldn’t be sure.

But John’s wet skin was soft and sleek to his touch, and Harold let his hands explore and seek their own proof. He sighed as John buried his face in his neck and wrapped his naked body around Harold’s own, and they stood like that for a very long time, letting the hot steamy water and their own caresses wash away the months of emptiness and pain.

When they finally emerged John wrapped one of the hotel’s posh towels around Harold but seemed too distracted to bother covering himself, and for Harold the sight was utterly irresistible. After missing John desperately for all those lonely months, the man’s very presence - so strong and so gloriously _here_ \- was almost overwhelming and he found that he simply couldn’t look away.

Harold knew he was staring but -

John read the unabashed longing in his eyes and Harold was instantly deprived of his towel. And even though every shred of his being was crying out to be touched and taken, the small remote portion of his mind that still clung to sanity was telling him that this was a terrible idea. Their very lives depended on staying apart from one another and this would only -

John was clasping his face between his hands, kissing him open-mouthed and hungrily, as if he could never truly be sated, and as their bodies brushed together Harold’s breath caught and he felt the sweet exhilaration that John’s touch always brought where every sense became more brilliant, as intoxicating and urgent as if they had never been apart. And now John’s hand was tracing an elaborate pattern down his side and between his legs, stroking the soft skin of his inner thigh and -

It was far too late to stop this anyway.

Harold banished from his mind every thought that wasn’t about loving John, and let himself be guided down onto the bed.

_“The typical human desire to achieve, and to be valued and esteemed for one’s accomplishments, is then manifested upon the foundation of survival needs.”_

Harold let his hand rest upon John’s chest, drawing comfort from each inhalation and listening for the soft sound of every steady breath. John was sleeping like a man at peace for the first time in months, but no such relief would come to him, and disconsolate thoughts pushed into his mind instead.

He had taken every conceivable precaution to protect the Machine and his own work, but he had always known that he was creating a map that others would follow, that his innovations were laying a foundation that people with less honorable intentions might one day corrupt and debase. Now every single fear, every cold moment of dread that he had diligently pushed to the edge of his conscious thought for so many years had come back to him with devastating consequences.

And yet his greatest accomplishment had also thwarted countless threats and in the process it had led him to John, and that he could never regret.

He was profoundly grateful for whatever cosmic forces had conspired to bring them together this one last time, had allowed them this one final moment of comfort. But with their enemies gathering strength and the danger from Samaritan still so omnipotent, that was surely all this could be - a stolen night, a chance for a proper goodbye, a tiny bit of grace from a world that had taken so much from them.

Nothing had changed. There was still no way for them to be together and Harold felt his heart clench at that incontrovertible truth; the suffocating cruelty of their situation was almost unbearable.

Maslow could hardly have anticipated this scenario, he thought wildly.

_“The two aesthetic needs within the hierarchy - the desire for meaning in one’s life and the search for beauty - are sometimes inexorably intertwined and frequently satisfied simultaneously.”_

He studied his lover’s face in the dusky light and realized that John had never looked quite so beautiful to him as he did right now, the pain of a haunted life etched into his strong features yet somehow also serenely content with Harold alongside of him once again. He ran his hand through John’s hair and kissed the sleeping man softly on the lips.

If the Machine had been his most conspicuous achievement, his finest hours were still the ones he’d spent with John, both for the lives they had saved and for the life they had built together. For a brief, perfect time they had been as united as two people could ever be, and they’d shared an extraordinary connection, a unique happiness.

Harold could only hope that those memories would be enough to sustain them both through the lonely years to come.

He found himself struggling to fend off the senseless rationalizations that his heart was longing to entertain - that such mystical concepts as fate and destiny actually existed, and that this seemingly chance encounter was the universe’s way of righting a horrible wrong, of reuniting two people who should never have been torn asunder.

He knew without asking what John would want him to believe.

But kismet was never a notion that he indulged in and he would certainly not become susceptible now, not when a most precious life was at stake.

The only way to protect John was to leave him behind once again.

John stirred in his sleep as if he were reading Harold’s thoughts, and a fresh wave of grief washed over Harold as a protective arm settled around him, and John’s mouth came to rest next to his ear as if in sleep he could finally say all the words still unspoken between them. John was pressed tightly against his side, and for a moment Harold gave into his own quiet desperation and pulled him closer still.

Perhaps the kindest action would be to just leave now, to spare them both an agonizing goodbye and simply slip away into the night. John would be hurt when he discovered that Harold was gone but he would also know that it was inevitable and perhaps someday even realize that Harold had done them both a favor and -

“Whatever you’re thinking - stop.”

John’s voice was barely a whisper but he had placed a restraining hand on Harold’s arm, and it was clear from his anguished expression that he knew exactly what his partner intended.

Harold could find no words for what he was about to do and John wasn’t bothering with them either, nuzzling behind his ear, brushing their lips together for a long moment before the deep sweet kiss that followed. And even when his mouth moved on to Harold’s throat his touch remained gentle, not claiming, as if to remember every detail by heart if this were indeed the end of everything. Harold trembled as John’s hand traced a memory down from the shallow of his neck, and he fought against the instinct telling him that this was _home_ , this was where he _belonged_.

If they didn’t separate now they never would, and they both knew it.

John reached over and took his hand, twining their fingers. A long leg tangled with Harold’s own, but they both knew that John couldn’t stop him if he were truly determined to go.

Keeping John with him, allowing them to stay together, would be a death sentence - and that was exactly what John was asking him to do. The plea was written all over his face and directed at Harold’s very soul, and it was absolutely the only thing that Harold couldn’t give him.

Hearts were going to be broken but he loved John too much to make any other choice, loved him so much that he was willing to let this be all his fault.

John read the answer in his face, and Harold watched as his partner’s eyes filled with sadness and grief, his expression a sort of stricken resignation. But he nodded in acceptance and even turned the covers back so that Harold could leave with as little fuss as possible.

_“The ultimate and transcendent level reflects the esoteric states - peak experiences, and those ineffable feelings too powerful to be truly expressed.”_

“Love you,” John said softly.

Of course Harold knew that; he had known it always. It was there in every affectionate tease, every protective touch, in John’s every ecstatic response when they made love.

But there was something astonishing in the power of hearing him say the simple words out loud - something measureless - that hit Harold with a force greater than the evening’s torrent, and he stared into the grief-stricken eyes opposite his own trying to grasp the stunning revelation that he had been utterly, fundamentally wrong about everything, and that his very perceptions were rearranging around him.

For all of his accumulated knowledge, Harold was struck by the sensation that only now was he truly _understanding._

Maslow had never promised that fulfillment would last forever - or even beyond a single day.

Time had never seemed less important.

Or more important.

He gently caressed John’s face with a new kind of wonder and smiled at the hopefulness there before slipping his arms around the other man’s neck and bringing his lips close to John’s ear.

“I love you, too.”

He felt John’s arms lock around him.

He could feel his partner’s heart pounding wildly, and when their gazes finally met there was a new light in John’s eyes, and a stunned, quizzical elation suffusing his features that went straight to Harold’s heart. He cradled John’s face in his hands and kissed him tenderly and deeply, sharing his breath and entwining their souls and leaving none of his questions unanswered.

Harold urged him back into the bed’s soft pillows then and nestled beside him, arranging himself so that they could see each other’s faces - so that John could see _his_ face and read there just how much he was loved and cherished and adored. John was looking into his eyes and smiling, shaking his head like Harold was a puzzle he’d never solve, but his happiness was undeniable and Harold pressed John’s hand to his lips. He was determined that John would have everything he could possibly give, for whatever time remained to them.

John’s heart had never left his hands, and Harold took his time with John’s body, moving his mouth delicately over his lover’s skin, letting his hands stroke with long, indulgent caresses. John quivered with pleasure and arched into his touch, and Harold returned often to gently press their lips together until John caught the back of his neck and found his mouth more insistently, rolling Harold beneath him and pressing their bodies together with undeniable need. Harold gave into his own desire then, deepening the kiss eagerly and letting his hands roam brazenly over John, down to the places that were his alone to explore.

John moaned and pulled the covers up over their heads, surrendering to Harold and the darkness and shutting the rest of the world away.

.

**Author's Note:**

> Abraham Maslow’s “Hierarchy of Human Needs” was originally published in 1943 with five stages leading to self-actualization, which he later expanded to seven, and ultimately eight, total stages. I’ve referenced the seven-step model because it’s the one that I learned, and while I’ve paraphrased liberally (particularly in somewhat combining the cognitive and aesthetic needs) I’ve tried to stay true to the spirit of the hierarchy.
> 
> I would also like to acknowledge all of the wonderful authors who have written so movingly and creatively about the aftermath of the season three finale. Your work has truly inspired me, and I’m most grateful.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!


End file.
